


Inexpressible Comfort

by icandrawamoth



Series: Do You Hear the People Sing? verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Angst, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Blood, Quotations, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icandrawamoth/pseuds/icandrawamoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that they've remembered their past lives, Enjolras and Combeferre can't seem to let their final moments go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inexpressible Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the [series page](http://archiveofourown.org/series/268906) for the premise of this verse, or this likely won't make much sense. This fic takes place a few days after opening night and everyone regaining their memories of their past lives.

_“Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away."  
_ _~Dinah Maria Mulock Craik, 'A Life for a Life'_

It’s been days, and Enjolras still hears gunshots every time he closes his eyes.

He rolls over in bed and glances at the clock display on his bedside table: nearly one am. He groans softly and squeezes his eyes shut again, burrowing into his pillow. He hasn’t been sleeping well since it happened. Every time he flashes back to that time and place, guns and smoke and screams, adrenaline spikes through his system and it takes him forever to calm down. Only for it to happen again, a roller coaster of emotion.

It would be easier, he thinks, if he could talk to someone. But that prospect isn’t as easy as it sounds. He knows everyone else is trying to adjust too, and he doesn’t want to bother them with his own problems. Part of him wishes Grantaire were here – he can hardly stand to be away from him now that he knows he’s what he’s been missing all this time, but they’re still finding their feet with one another.

He rolls over again, clenching a shaking fist into the sheets. He’s sweating, his heart pounding, and he kind of wishes someone would hit him in the head with a brick (or maybe _the_ Brick, if only he was capable of finding that funny) so he could finally sleep.

He starts again as his phone rings loudly and scrambles to sit up in bed and scoop it up from the table. Who would be calling him at this time of night?

_Caleb_ , the display reads, and the pang of worry that shoots through him doesn’t help his frame of mind. His best friend never calls this late.

“Hello?”

“Enjolras.” It’s still strange to hear himself called that name aloud, but it feels right just the same.

“Combeferre.”

His friend takes a shuddering breath. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No. I couldn’t sleep.” Enjolras could never be anything less than honest with him; he’s always known him well enough to sense a lie anyway.

“Me either. I keep thinking…about before. That last battle.” He sounds distressed in a way Enjolras has rarely seen him, either Caleb or Combeferre. “I know it was a lifetime ago, but I can’t stop seeing it. Th-the shooting, and the blood. Everyone dying…” He cuts off with a choked sound.

Enjolras could weep with relief. He wonders if part of Combeferre didn’t know this was a conversation he needed to have too. “It’s all right,” he says, as gently as he can. He’s not used to being the comforter between the two of them. “I-I feel the same way. It was different when we thought it was fiction. Well, not fiction, but when it wasn’t actually _us_.”

There’s a muffled sound from the other side of the line, Combeferre moving but not trusting himself to speak.

Enjolras isn’t sure what to say. “Are you all right?”

Combeferre lets out a wet laugh. “Can we really be all right after this?”

“I think we’ll get used to it. What other choice do we have?”

Again Combeferre doesn’t answer right away. Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t know what to do.”

Enjolras aches for him, for all of them. It’s a relief to know Combeferre feels as he does, but it hurts to hear him in such pain all the same. “Would you feel better if you weren’t alone? You could come over.”

“It’s the middle of the night. And we have a matinee tomorrow.” He groans softly as if overwhelmed by the idea.

“So? It’s the city that never sleeps. The subway can have you here in less than half an hour, and you can sleep just as well here. I think we’d both feel better,” Enjolras wheedles, because it’s true.

Combeferre lets out a long sigh, but Enjolras can tell it’s relief rather than anything else. “I’ll pack some things and be there as soon as I can. Thank you.”

Enjolras smiles, relief settling in his own chest. “Of course.”

 

***

When Combeferre knocks on his door a short time later, Enjolras greets him with a cup of his favorite tea, a supply he keeps on hand solely for him since he doesn’t drink the stuff. He fetches a glass of milk for himself, and they settle at the table in the kitchen, dimly lit by the half-burnt-out fixture above the sink.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Enjolras ventures after Combeferre has spent a few minutes staring into his mug.

He meets his eyes. “Do you?”

“You called me,” Enjolras counters, giving him a soft, encouraging smile.

Combeferre sighs and drops his eyes again. His legs shift under the table. “Do you remember anything about dying?”

Enjolras closes his eyes, and he’s right back in that moment. Alone, scared. Facing down a dozen National Guardsmen with no hope of escape. His friends all dead. The miracle of Grantaire’s hand in his. Shots. Pain, and then nothing.

He opens his eyes again, and Combeferre is studying his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Enjolras rubs his eyes. He’s tired, and that mixed with these emotions isn’t doing him any favors. “It’s still so raw.”

Combeferre nods and finally takes a drink of his tea. “I remember everything,” he murmurs. “The book left so many details out. I watched our friends die. I held Courfeyrac’s hand after he was shot. I tried to stop the bleeding.” It’s his turn to close his eyes, to turn away from memories that can’t be turned away from. He chokes back a sob. “I couldn’t do anything. He was so afraid.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispers, reaching to cover Combeferre’s hand with his. His friend grips back almost desperately. Enjolras wishes he were better at comfort. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m sorry that you all had to go that. I wish things had turned out different.”

“Don’t we all.” Combeferre gently pulls his hand away and wipes his face, sniffling and reaching again for his tea. “It’s history, we can’t deny or change it. I don’t wish I wasn’t there. I would go back, I still believe in everything we fought for then. I only wish there wasn’t so much blood on our hands.”

Enjolras nods. “It was awful, but it had to be done. You know I would go back, too.” He looks at Combeferre, takes a moment to really drink him in, to appreciate that they have this second chance, that all of them do. “I never saw what happened to you. At the end…I knew I was alone, but in the middle of the battle, I didn’t see much but the man I was fighting at any given time. Is…is the book accurate?”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Combeferre says heavily. “It was blessing for you.” He studies his cup, contemplating.

“You don’t have to say any more.”

“But I will. The book says it, but it lacks in details. There was a lull around me, after…after Courfeyrac. I looked around and saw the others fighting, bodies strewn about. And then one moved, near the barricade. A National Guardsman. He was badly injured, but still alive.”

Enjolras already knows what will come next, but holds his breath just the same.

“I intended to help him, to lift him and carry him back to the Corinthe. But his comrades must have thought I aimed to kill him. They came after me. Bayonets,” he murmurs, glancing toward the ceiling. “The last thing I saw was the sky.”

“Oh, my friend…” Enjolras clasps his hand again, and Combeferre meets his eyes, squeezing back.

“I knew I would likely end in a bad way, I went into it open-eyed. I died fighting for what I believe in, and as I said, I don’t regret it.”

“None of us do, but to remember it is painful,” Enjolras murmurs, and Combeferre doesn’t dispute him.

“You and Grantaire?” Combeferre ventures after a moment. “Did it really happen like that?”

“Very closely,” Enjolras breathes. “Though I hope you understand that I’d like to discuss it further with him before anyone else.”

“I understand.” Combeferre yawns and slips his phone from his pocket to check the time, groaning softly. “Tomorrow morning is going to be awful.”

“Tomorrow is all going to be awful,” Enjolras corrects. “Off to relive our past lives and deaths for the entertainment of the masses.”

“Not all of them come for mindless entertainment,” Combeferre is quick to point out. “Some are changed by it. Weren’t we, when we were younger?”

“We may have been biased,” Enjolras says, giving him a look. “See the past lives issue.”

Combeferre smiles. “Just the same.” His face morphs to one of quiet concern again as he gazes at his friend. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“Not just now. Just having you beside me again helps.” Enjolras smiles at him, and is soon interrupted by his own yawn.

“Come on, time for sleep. You to your bed, me to your lovely couch.” It’s not the first time Combeferre has spent the night here, and he knows where to get the spare blankets and pillow from. He looks up from making his bed and says, “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

“Yes. And the same for you.”

“Of course.” They bid each other goodnight, and each rests easy knowing the other is within reach.


End file.
